


Revenge Is A Dish Best Served At 36°F

by orphan_account



Series: ‘Til Death Do Us Part [3]
Category: Hockey RPF, Real Person Fiction, Sports RPF
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Chicago Blackhawks, Death, Funeral, M/M, Surprise Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 16:28:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick is dead. Jonny and Brent attend his funeral with some unexpected results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revenge Is A Dish Best Served At 36°F

**Author's Note:**

> Final part of this little series which was written because I needed a fic where we completely bypassed Jonny/Kaner and killed one of them off.

                The church was in the middle of fucking nowhere and Brent almost got lost twice before Jonny finally gave up and lets him use the GPS. The fact that Captain Control let him drive should have been a warning in and of itself; Jonny wasn’t running anywhere close to a hundred percent.

                Jonny squeezed his hand as soon as they were out of the car, squeezed it tight, his own knuckles whitening. “I’m scared.”

                “I know, baby. I know.” Brent stroked his hair with one hand, “I am too.” He glanced at Jonny; in his sleek black suit, he was hot. Like, suh-mokin’ hawt. The black-on-black accented his pale skin and made his eyes look like something that Brent could all too easily drown it. _Focus, Seabrook. Funeral here._

                Jonny took a deep breath, settling himself, “Okay. Let’s go.” They walked up the stone steps hand in hand. The church was cold, real cold. Goosebumps rose under Brent’s coat when he stepped inside.

                The first thing Brent noticed was the flowers. Very minimal, but classy. Very un-Kaner.

                The second thing he noticed was the Hawks guys huddled in a back corner of the church.

                Sharpy looked up, spotting them first. “Hey, Tazer.” He pulled him into a hug, “How you doin’?”

                “Not so hot,” he mumbled into Sharpy’s shoulder. “But I’m…I’m getting through it.”

                “Seabs,” Laddy said, grabbing hold of Brent and holding on too tight.

                “Laddy.”

                “Shawsy,” someone—Bolly—breathed to Brent’s right. Brent heard the kid whimper as he was crushed up against his best friend.

                “Tazer.” Sharpy transferred him smoothly over to Bur, who pressed his former captain to his chest. Jonny leaned into Adam’s shoulder, his back shaking uncontrollably.

                It was basically just a hug-fest, passing one another back and forth, muttering names and occasionally comfort in each other’s ears. And then Brent realized what they were all doing their damnedest to ignore.

                That the body of Patrick Timothy Kane II was completely lifeless, resting in the shiny metal box at the front of the room.

                Brent stood there and watched as everyone who had ever cared about Patrick filed through and paid their respects. Patrick was dead but life would go on.

                Life would black armbands. Life would be photos and video completions, touting the successes of Patrick’s cut-short career. Life would be the small black “88” on the side of every Chicago Blackhawk’s helmet for the rest of their season. Life would be tears when the season was dedicated to their fallen friend and teammate. Life would be tributes and tattoos and Kaner’s jersey framed and hanging on walls and eventually retired. Life would be going home to Jonny and their two kids and wondering what their lives would have been like if they hadn’t retired early to start their family.

                And finally they were the only two left.

                Unless you counted Patrick.

                Jonny turned his face into Brent’s shoulder until he could regain control of himself again. When he turned back to the coffin, his face was pink and flushed. He stood up and walked over so that he could look down at his…his best friend. Jonny buried his nose in Patrick’s hair, clutching at the pale hands folded neatly on the hockey-broad chest that _was not moving_. “God,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Kaner. I love you, okay? I do. Just come back. Come back, Patty.”

                And then Jonny bent over the coffin and kissed Patrick full on the mouth and lifted his foot up to the lip of the coffin and tumbled in, curling his body protectively around the little blonde American.

                And as Brent watched, Patrick’s big blue eyes opened and then narrowed into slits as he smirked at Brent. He turned his head to kiss the top of Jonny’s hair, shot Brent a wink that made his blood run cold, and—as silent as the grave—reached up with one hand to pull the lid of the coffin shut, where it sealed closed with a muted sucking sound.

                Brent pounded on the lid, pulling hard, harder, _open, open, why won’t it fucking open_? He pulled as hard as he could until the handle snapped off in his hands. He slammed his fists down on the coffin, “Dammit! No! You are _not_ taking him away from me!”

                “What?” Kaner’s voice whispered, directly into Brent’s ear. “Like you took him away from me?”

                His obnoxious laughter filled the room and Brent sank to his knees and then to the floor in a dead faint.

**Author's Note:**

> Bodies are stored at 36°F.


End file.
